28.3.12

funny how little figures are emerging from the cloth and the dye and my memories, from the morels to the outhouse to the old rusty tiller to the bloodsucking butterfly my ex-roomie created to patrol the property. and slowly each memory is becoming lighter, less wound-y, more happy.

**is anyone having trouble commenting? please email me, drucillapettibone@gmail.com. i've had a few people say they were, so i'm thinking of moving my blog over to my wordpress site. but i'm used to it here and wonder if i won't lose more discussion by moving than i'll gain with a better comment interface. what do you think?

25.3.12

i had one of the best thrift scores i've ever had, and that includes some miracles. at the pta thrift store behind the bojangles, where i almost did not even stop, but it was as if there was a tiny voice in my ear urging me on, despite my complete lack of need for stuff of any kind... and i indulged, fully expecting to find no-thing, especially because this particular thrift is junky and racist, or at least it used to be...

but in i walk, and look who was waiting for me..

a fricke! a wheel i don't have! and for a mere $30. it had been waiting for me since 3/8. some of you know i have quite the herd of wheels, and i'm not sure why other than my hoarder collector urges. although they are all different and unique tools ... yarns are not the same produced on different wheels. and i so enjoy tinkering with them and learning their histories. and i do use them all. this fricke is, weirdly, the only double-treadle i have at the moment, and fits well into my collection as a smaller castle-style wheel than my louet s-10, and i'm really impressed with its action.. it is *so* nice and smooth. also - and i didn't realize this at first - it came with a woolee winder, a very nifty (and expensive) upgrade. perhaps all this crazy luck is a sign that i should consider starting a spinning school, or a cottage industry.

i'm waiting for this wheel to tell me his name. i feel that he's my first boy wheel, but he's being shy. i keep thinking freddie or fergus, but i must wait for him to clarify. i brought him to my parents' place with me because i couldn't bear to leave him so soon.

i've been corresponding with katherine about the i-ching and luck and synchronicity... and not only has she been good enough to gift me a copy of the richard wilhelm translation of the i-ching, because the i-phone app is really not ok... but i think she's also sent some of her good fortune my way!

23.3.12

the view from my new home studio window... i'm loving having all my things right there to be gotten into in the wee hours, and my sofa and kitty. i guess i needed to have a studio outside in order to meet people and feel sort of part of something in this area (since we moved here with no real connection, no work, school or church outside the home). and it also made me very aware of my own working style and patterns. and i finally know that having it right here under the same roof works so much better for me. and just as i get everything settled and start to get in a groove, i leave town..

i've just arrived at my parents' place, and am helping them liquidate an estate. it's the estate of a friend of theirs that has passed, a delightful woman, and her daughter. my mum is an antique dealer and appraiser so this is what she does. but i've rarely seen a place like this.... SO MUCH STUFF that one can't even move around. i might be able to take some instagrams if it doesn't feel disrespectful.. so there's very much work but satisfying. and how is it that my 70+ year old parents have so much more energy than i do? sigh.

good thing that late-night stitching always follows me, no matter where i am. a few small bits of my "home" piece which is materializing.

15.3.12

now that it's in the 80s(!), we can't put off shearing any longer. yesterday i sheared georgie, and it was the first time i've done it by myself. it went well! and i loved doing it! and today, i sheared gabbie, our black sheep. only one to go, greta (the lambs won't be sheared till next year)... and she knows we're coming for her.

i've been wanting to learn to shear, since, you know, i'm all about the dying arts.. and we only have such a few sheepies. plus it's nice to not be so dependent on having a shearer come to us. the few that are left are so busy this time of year. last year, after he drove an hour (in june no less, the first opening he had) to get here, we couldn't catch the little buggers. it was a total sheep debacle.. they are really crafty. i'm not sure why people think sheep are stupid.. at least ours have outsmarted us many times.

i've tried electric shears, but they are so heavy and noisy. a shepherdess friend suggested hand shears, and also said that sometimes she even uses fiskars - which seemed right up my alley since i use a small pair to clip the rabbits... and this was a good excuse for a beautiful pair.. and especially with a 40% off coupon at michael's, a much better deal than electric shears... and they work great, at least for our little shetlands.

the only other issue is my sheep are so messy. i'm afraid i'll be picking hay out of this fleece until next year .. but still, like grace, i think i may have found my métier (besides watching downton): i want to become a shearer!

6.3.12

I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow. Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should know That if nothing drastic is done Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out. Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in Until the town lie beaten flat.

All perform their tragic play, There struts Hamlet, there is Lear, That's Ophelia, that Cordelia; Yet they, should the last scene be there, The great stage curtain about to drop, If worthy their prominent part in the play, Do not break up their lines to weep. They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay; Gaiety transfiguring all that dread. All men have aimed at, found and lost; Black out; Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages, And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages, It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,' Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back, Old civilisations put to the sword. Then they and their wisdom went to rack: No handiwork of Callimachus, Who handled marble as if it were bronze, Made draperies that seemed to rise When sea-wind swept the corner, stands; His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem Of a slender palm, stood but a day; All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third, Are carved in lapis lazuli, Over them flies a long-legged bird, A symbol of longevity; The third, doubtless a serving-man, Carries a musical instrument.

Every discoloration of the stone, Every accidental crack or dent, Seems a water-course or an avalanche, Or lofty slope where it still snows Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch Sweetens the little half-way house Those Chinamen climb towards, and I Delight to imagine them seated there; There, on the mountain and the sky, On all the tragic scene they stare. One asks for mournful melodies; Accomplished fingers begin to play. Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes, Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

i'm finally getting somewhere. breaking open and spilling out. the new therapist, the move home, the blue hands, they are all working. the beads are from mum. and this is my first indigo vat, thanks to glennis!!